Thumbtacks
by lastlumos
Summary: The caged bird plagued her mind. There it was tucked in her robes, and here she was obsessing over what would make a fitting reply. She convinced herself that it felt like a riddle, and she liked a good challenge. HBP.


Hermione thought nothing much of the cork board the head girl, Katie Bell, had hung outside the Great Hall. She had after all mocked the board with Harry, rolling their eyes at the Wizarding school's attempt of a muggle exhibition. Yet here she was, taking a detour from her trip to the library to get a glimpse of the board. Silly confessions decorated the surface, and there were also some poetry excerpts to her delight. There was one new addition today. It read, '_A certain sixth-year Hufflepuff still sleeps with his 18-year-old reeking blanket.' _The board reminded her of how simple things was, and should have been. Nevertheless, she couldn't explain just how comforting its presence was.

At first, Hermione was doubtful students would be interested in participating in such a muggle concept, but she had to admit begrudgingly how wrong she was. The board was full of posts by the end of its first week up, and there were already approved plans for the board to extend to 5 meters long. Katie had first argued the bulletin board could serve as a stress reliever for students in 'our time of uncertainty'. A watered down phrase of 'Voldemort is back, and everybody's scared shitless'. She had met with little disagreement; mostly from the head boy, Adrian Pucey, for only Hermione, Ron, and a couple of other Prefects returned back this year. Even the Weasleys hinted all summer long that maybe their two youngest would benefit from taking the year off, but Ginny and Ron were adamant about returning to Hogwarts.

_I no longer seek refuge from magic._ Was this written by another Muggle-born? Hermione frowned, trying to figure out whose writing it was in vain. It pained her that it could be anyone. Maybe it was Penelope, who always shared her chocolates with Hermione every Halloween— sent by her parents in the name of tradition— because it was one of the few things from their muggle heritage they could hold onto as magic sank deeper and deeper into their lives with every year. Or maybe it was the third-year Ravenclaw she caught humming to the melodies of the Beatles yesterday night, alone, looking at the stars in the Astronomy Tower.

Hermione still remembered the day she got her acceptance letter like it was yesterday. She had only known wizards for their unruly beards, and witches for their jet-black crooked hats; her latter assumption proven true when Professor McGonagall came knocking the Grangers' home with her very own frayed hat. Her parents thought the professor was mad until she let out a little '_Arresto Momentum_', and stopped a cup of tea Hermione tiptoed to bring her from falling. The Grangers were anxious, but overall excited for what's to come for their little Hermione. She had found solace in believing she was _special_; she barely slept after she got a copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ on her first visit to Diagon Alley, devouring the book for the rest of the summer before her first semester at Hogwarts. These days she wondered what it would be like if she had no magic.

She was flicking through a motion drawing of a hippogriff soaring through the sky when she caught her eye on a small parchment behind it. '_Why do the caged bird sing?'_

Hermione felt her heart sinking six feet under, accompanied by a lump in the back of her throat slowly building. She ripped the post from the board for a closer inspection. It was written on a torn piece of paper, the cursive writing neat enough that it was legible.

It reminded her of the first poem she recited to her parents one Christmas. A poem from an aged poetry book she came across in a charity shop, with its pages brown and battered. Her mum argued the book was too old and musty, but Hermione insisted some old things were better than new ones.

"Hermione!" called a voice behind her. Hermione turned around to see Ginny coming towards her, and hurriedly put the piece of paper in her robes' pockets. Ginny's brows furrowed and her hands were at her hips. That isn't a good sign, thought Hermione.

"Hey Gin," said Hermione. "What's wrong?"

"The fact that we promised to meet up at 8, and now it's already five to 10." Oh Merlin. Hermione forgot that she was supposed to meet Ginny to help with her essays for Snape's class. Hermione knew Ginny was more than capable enough to meet Snape's grading demands. These tutoring sessions always end up with them on Ginny's bed giggling away about anything that would provide them a distraction. Other times, they played out their future in mind. Ginny with her professional Quidditch career, and Hermione off saving house-elves.

"I'm so sorry Gin, I got caught up in the restricted section with some of my favorite men." said Hermione smiling mischievously, holding up the books she borrowed.

"Oh yes, I can see that…" replied Ginny as her eyes narrow trying to read the author's name on the books, "I'll keep that in mind the next time I'm setting you up with somebody. Checklist: grey-haired, and in the midst of dying."

Hermione laughed and took Ginny's arms in hers. "Oh shush, let's go see what else has Harry discovered in his precious book."

* * *

It was almost dawn when Hermione sat down at her desk with a piece of fresh parchment. She blamed her trouble sleeping on the coffee Lavender had made, and urged her to try in courtesy of a Witch Weekly article called '_Coffee is the New Tea'._

The caged bird plagued her mind. There it was tucked in her robes, and here she was obsessing over what would make a fitting reply. She convinced herself that it felt like a riddle, and she liked a good challenge.

Laying her head down on the desk, she closed her eyes and pictured the bird— fluttering about its confinement, playing a quiet tune. Her younger self robbed off the imagination, the tune replaced with her ringing recital of the poem she met in the little charity shop.

"The caged bird sings with fearful trill," Pausing for effect, young Hermione glanced at her parents sitting down on the couch, gleaming with pride. Her dad smiled from ear to ear, watching Hermione from the camera recorder's viewfinder. "Of the things unknown, but longed for still."

She looked upon the room's horizon, furrowing her brows. "And his tune is heard on the distant hill— for the caged bird sings of freedom."

Beaming, she bowed as her parents' claps filled the room. The applause soon died down, replaced by the song of the caged bird once more.

After a couple of scratched out phrases and crumpled parchments, Hermione was finally satisfied with her reply. She grabbed thumbtacks from her own bulletin board above her desk, pictures and reminders bulging out— fighting for space with one another, and placed them in her robes along with the anonymous note, and her reply.

* * *

To her horror, she woke up ten minutes before classes began; not to mention, Snape's Defense Against the Dark Arts was first. Yes, she definitely blamed it on Lavender's coffee.

The whole day she felt the note burning in her robes— itching to see daylight as if it knew she wasn't its writer. She tried slipping away from Harry and Ron during lunch to no avail. Apparently Hermione had made another absent-minded promise to watch Gryffindor's Quidditch practice, _and_ make pointers for Ron's Keepers tryout next week. Naturally, Hermione wrote down notes— pages of it— only to have Ron completely disregard it. To quote him, 'errr…. I think it's better for me to practice first-hand after all 'Mione.' She didn't know why she even bothered.

Then came dinner with its topic of the night being whether or not Filch's night visits to the library had something _especially_ to do with Madam Pince. Ron pleaded to Merlin that it was nothing but a gossip, but Harry swore he saw their footprints too close to each other in the Marauder's map one night. Hermione almost believed they were in their third year again until Dumbledore came scurrying Harry off somewhere. When he came back to the table Harry was awfully quiet and solemn. He mumbled to them, "Later."

Hermione met with Ron's eyes knowingly. If the last five years had taught them anything, it was not to push Harry after his 'laters'. She hurriedly switched the topic to Ron's impending tryout. "I think you ought to watch out for McLaggen."

"Yeah, I hear you all right," Ron muttered as he chewed, cranberry sauce spread all around his mouth. "The bloke gloated about his training sessions with Darren O'Hare over the summer. Meanwhile what do I got?"

"Gryffindor's Quidditch captain at your service?" Hermione offered, nudging Harry's arms. Hermione laughed as Harry rolled his eyes, his lips slowly forming into a smile. Before long, their little side of the table erupted in laughter.

* * *

"Harry," Hermione whispered.

"Hm?"

"I've been thinking…" Hermione uttered quietly, glancing at Harry who was busy doodling on his Potions essay. She could see that he was drawing a slug very much alike their Potions professor.

Her breath hitched. "My parents. Harry, I've decided to _obliviate_ them in case—"

"What?" hissed Harry as his frantic eyes quickly met with Hermione's. "_Hermione,_ you can't be serious! There's other—"

"No, there's none and you know it." Hermione replied, trying to be as calm as possible. She didn't want to cry in front of her best friend; not when she knew he was already hesitating to ask for any help from her and Ron.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, pulling her into a hug. She hugged him back a little too tightly.

"Don't be."

* * *

Harry and Ron left after they finished with their Potions essay due tomorrow. They had tried to coax Hermione to go back with them, insisting that reading ahead for tomorrow's Apparition lesson would be a bit meaningless since there was little theory behind it, but she was always more stubborn than them. So she stayed in the library until Madam Pince kicked her out. Taking the same detour as yesterday night, she stopped at the board. Nothing's much has changed except for a scribbled '_What about your 19-year-old one-eyed teddy bear_ _Ernie?' _on yesterday's addition.

It took less than a minute for her to fasten the caged bird back to the board with her reply sticking underneath it. Hiding safely behind the flying hippogriff once more, Hermione wondered if the anonymous would see her reply.

_'The caged bird sings for the world it deserves.'_

At least her robes stopped burning.

**A/N: This year I've decided to start writing proper stories, and what better way than to write a dramione fanfic? I'm planning to let this be a one-shot for the moment (yep, it ends here), but am tinkering away some content for a possible chapter 2. Point out any flaws if you see one, and do leave review if you enjoyed it. I hope I have written Hermione the way she deserves to be written like. Cheers. **


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